


I.O.U.

by ChloeWinchester, Johniarty



Series: Nothing Makes It Better [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gore, Kidnapping, M/M, Molestation, Roleplay, Suffering, Torture, Violence, non-con, psycological anguish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:02:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWinchester/pseuds/ChloeWinchester, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johniarty/pseuds/Johniarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John didn't know he was back, didn't know he was out for revenge. If he had, he would have been more careful leaving the hospital. Now he's at Moriarty's mercy, praying for an end that will never come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I.O.U.

**Author's Note:**

> This warrants a bit of an explanation. I.O.U. was a roleplay between ChloeWinchester and myself, who are members of the M7 group on Tumblr. It's a cross-fandom group- hence why other characters are present/mentioned.
> 
> ChosenofAshurha is John, and ChloeWinchester is Jim (SHE IS AMAZING OKAY WOW)

“John…Jo-ohn,” he said in a sing-song voice, coming up behind him, Loki’s hold on him vanishing. He leaned down to put his hands on his shoulders, keeping the weakened soldier on his knees. “As awful as those little nightmares of yours are,” his lips were beside his ear, voice hissing and inhuman. “I think there’s something much more real you need to worry about…”

He waited a moment, watching him think. “‘No,’” he mocked. “‘Not him. Not Moriarty! Moriarty’s dead! That mean, mean man is gone.’ If you ever thought you’d escape me, John, you’re wrong, you are so wrong. But I suppose you already knew that.”

He took a fistful of his hair, forcing him to look at him. “See, Sherlock faked his death to keep you from the monsters. Too bad there’s one that slithered back out of the dark.”

Jim traced his cheek with the tip of the meat-hook in his dominant hand. “But I think he’ll learn his lesson for lying.”

In one swift movement he brought the hook down hard enough to pierce all the way through his shoulder, right through his scar and out the other side of his jumper.

He hauled him up with a cackle, listening to his screams and laughing shrilly with them. He shoved him against the wall, attaching the hook to a rigging system against the wall, pulling the chain a little so the doctor was on his toes.

His hands slapped against the brick when he stood in front of him, his face directly in front of his. “Guess what, John? I’m _ba-ack_.”

\---

No. No. It couldn’t be.

John came back to his senses as he knelt on a cold cement floor. That voice, that bloody voice, surrounding him, echoing, everywhere. He couldn’t show fear. He _couldn’t._  He looked into the face of James Moriarty, the black-eyed, snarling face, and he glared. He glared defiantly, hard enough to make the muscles in his face ache.

In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the best idea.

He howled in pain as Moriarty speared the curved metal though him, blood pouring from the wound as he was lifted from the ground. Tears dripped from his eyes as his body screamed in protest, burning, aching through the huge wound. Moriarty’s breath was hot on his face as he leaned in, whispering with glee. 

John spat on him, his body already shaking through the shock. “Fuck you,” He hissed. 

\---

Jim sneered, backhanding him hard enough to draw blood and stepped back, taking out a handkerchief from his lapel and wiping his face. “Is that how we want to play? Not the wisest choice for self-preservation, doctor,” he said, voice quiet, eyes dark… dead.

He withdrew a knife from his belt, grabbing John’s free hand and slamming it against the brick before he could think to fight, ramming a knife through his open palm and pinning it there.

“Now, you know what they say…” He stepped over to a table, blocking John’s view, and came back to him with a needle looped through with the hospital grade thread used for stitches. He grabbed John’s throat, pushing in and up, holding his jaw closed. “If you can’t say anything nice…” He shoved the needle through his lips, grinning that wolfish smile of his, watching John cry and jerk, lacing them through over and over... Sewing his lips shut.

\---

John licked the blood from his lips. “You’re-” His speech faded as he saw what Jim was holding.  _Christ, this is bad. This is very, very bad. Sherlock, please, please figure out something’s wrong._

As the needle pierced his skin he shrieked in agony, trying to force himself off the hook, trying to get away. It was useless. It hurt, it hurt so fucking  _much,_  and there was nothing he could do. He was trapped. His blue eyes were wide, panicked- this went beyond the bomb. This was torture for the sake of it, just to watch John suffer. He was terrified, but he had to stay strong. He  _had_ to. Sherlock would find him.

…Wouldn’t he?

\---

Jim sang while he worked, grinning. _“They call me doctor love, calling doctor love…’_ Sorry,” he said casually, as if he were hemming a shirt. “Sure you’ve had enough doctor puns to last you a lifetime, haven’t you?” He waited, as if expecting a response. He laughed again, as if remembering. “Oh,” he giggled in mock-embarrassment, nodding to the needle in his hand. “Right. That. Oops.”

He tied it off when he finished, stepping back, still humming, taking up a pair of shears, incredibly sharp and glinting. “Now, seeing as you’ve utterly ruined your clothes with all that blood, I should probably get them off of you,” he grinned maliciously, pressing a lever so John was lowered flat on his feet, shorter than Jim once more.

“Now,” he warned. “I know you’ve got another hand, but I’ve got dozens of knives, dear. If you want to keep that hand without holes I’d keep it there. Having to do that again might make me so cross I start cutting off the bits that stick out.”

The kitchen shears bit through his jumper easily, cutting it away in a few well-placed cuts, the same for the T-shirt underneath. He kept his eyes locked with the doctor, grinning. “So many places that hurt, Johnny. So many scars to reopen…Sorry, I’m a bit like a kid in a candy store.”

He tore open the front of his denims, shears open and pointed somewhere important. “Just remember where I am before we get ideas about kicking, hm?” He smiled as he took them off, leaving him bloodied and sweating in his pants. “See, now we can really get started.”

\---

John swallowed through his tears, forcing down the growl threatening to rise from his chest. He kept his body still, watching silently, breathing heavily. There were so many things he wanted to do; rip out his stitches, take those fucking shears and shove them right up Moriarty’s-

He hated being this exposed in front of the bastard. He was thankful, at least, that it wasn’t a Monday- he was plain and normal today. Moriarty was too close to him, had too much power. He could wait. 

He hoped he could.

There was pain in his eyes; tears and anguish, but something else as well- fire. Defiance. He could handle this; barely five minutes in and it was already worse than the torture he faced at the hands of the Afghani resistance, but he would survive- at least long enough to take the bastard with him.

He was covered in blood from head to toe, shaking, unable to hold still. Shock; Physical shock from the pain and blood loss. He was on fire.

\---

He grabbed John’s face, looking into his eyes, seeing his will. He chuckled. “We’ll soon get rid of that…” He breathed, nodding, patting his cheek. “So, I’m sure you’re wondering where your precious Sherlock is, if he’ll be looking for you or not, hm?

“It makes one wonder, John-” He went back to the table, picking up instruments and debating as he held them. “-whether he’ll notice you’re missing. Didn’t you go to Dublin for three days and he didn’t even notice?” He giggled, shaking his head. “Remarkable. And he ‘loves’ you, that right?” He said, holding quotes in the air. “I’m curious, really, as to whether he’ll notice you’re gone. Either way, when he does…” He held up John’s phone, giving it a shake. “He’ll be on a nice little goose chase and will only find you when I allow him to.”

“Ah,” he twirled the instrument in his hand, giving John a wicked grin. “We’ll start with the riding crop.”

\---

_Oh no. No you do not, Moriarty._

The slap stung his stitches, but he narrowed his eyes through the pain. Sherlock hadn’t said it. Sherlock would never say it. And he knew if he didn’t play along correctly, Sherlock would never get to. It was true; the detective tended to forget John’s existence. He wouldn’t be coming- unless Jim wanted him to. And he didn’t.

Jim said it.

Their secret phrase, whispered in the darkness of their flat, usually accompanied by sighs and moans of pleasure, and he  _said it._ John glared at him, angry, angrier than he’d been in years. He balled his free hand into a fist. He would  _tear_ the grin from the fucking Irishman’s face. Sullying something so precious, so private…

He growled, low in his throat, eyes shooting daggers. He couldn’t sit back, he couldn’t just hold out. He needed to fight. 

\---

“Ooh,” he giggled. “That strike a nerve, did it, doctor?” He asked, seeing the defiance. He clicked his tongue. “You two should really learn to be a bit quieter. Never know what a passerby might hear out of those filthy little mouths of yours…”

He strode toward him with it, a dead look in his eyes, holding the tip under his blood-soaked jaw. “I wonder if this’ll make you as hard as it does with Sherlock, hm?” He mocked, dragging it across his cheek. He brought it down across his lips with a hard slap, giving him no time to recover before striking his sides, dragging it up his sternum.

“So angry, John. Fighting me…” He grinned, whipping it across his face again. “But that’s alright!” He giggled. “You fight me. You fight. It’ll just make breaking you that much easier!”

He struck him mercilessly several times in a row, catching his neck, his nipple, his clavicle and his hips. “ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?!”

\---

As the crop came down on his pierced lips he screamed, writhing against the metal in his skin. They began to bleed once more, dripping down his chin. Some leaked into his mouth. It tasted vile.

As pain lanced across his body, he fought to keep conscious. It would only get worse if he didn’t react. He was pissed,  _more_ than pissed, downright murderous, even though he felt like he was dying. He wouldn’t break. No one would break John Hamish Watson- not even James Moriarty.

Welts rose across his body, accompanied by fresh blood. He gathered his energy. He uncurled his fist, slowly rotating his wrist, flipping his middle finger up in Moriarty’s direction.

He couldn’t speak, and it might cost him everything, but he wanted him to know. Wanted him to see.

_I’m a fucking soldier. Bring it._

\---

Jim paused, crop in hand, glowering at him. “You like playing dangerous games, don’t you, John?” He asked quietly.

He pressed the crop to the middle of his chest, slowly walking toward him and sliding the device downward as he did. When he was close enough he tapped it against the front of John’s pants in a steady rhythm.

“Little soldier, hm?” He whispered, grinning, grabbing the hook in his shoulder and tugging it upward. The riding crop continued its pattern. “You really think you can hold out, don’t you? Think you can outlast whatever I have in store for you and I’ll just give up?”

He dragged his tongue over his bloodied chin and lips, collecting it and swallowing the mouthful. “We’ll see.”

He flicked the instrument, eyes locked with his as it echoed with a loud crack against his sensitives. He laughed as he screamed.

\---

John knew he was in for it, but he didn’t care. He whimpered as Moriarty drug him back up by the hook, fresh blood pulsing from the wound as it tore again. His breath was hot as he licked at his face, and John felt bile rise in his throat. 

_How fucking dare you, you fucking pig._

As the crop slapped against his cock he screamed, his vision going black. It was too much, he pushed him too far.

\---

Jim sighed when he passed out. “Oh, that won’t do,” he cooed. “No good to me asleep, are you?” He patted his cheek. Jim stepped away, picking up the bucket of icy water beside the table. “You make me do this to you, you know,” he muttered, grinning, and tossed it on him.

\---

As the frigid water crashed over him, John jolted awake with a scream in his throat. His first instinct was to shout- he tore a few of his stitches, screaming more. Moriarty was smiling at him. Wet, bleeding, shaking, he was back in Jim’s grasp. There’d be no relief.

He was caught. He was more vulnerable than ever. He refused to cry. He wouldn’t, not any more, not again.

\---

Jim grinned. “Now, none of that, Dr. Watson. Next time I’ll use amphetamines to keep those pretty eyes open.” He stepped closer to him, holding his chin and tsking at the stitches he’d pulled. “Oh, well, we’ll fix those later.”

He watched him shiver and gave a mock-pout. “Are you cold, dear? I can fix that…”

He plucked a blowtorch off the table as well as a knife. He winked as it ignited, slowly heating the blade. “So many scars, John. What on earth could you have done to get them all?” He chuckled softly. “Any from sex? Just nod or shake your head.”

\---

The heated blade terrified John. He’d been submitted to one before, in Afghanistan, and he didn’t want to live through that again- searing agony as your flesh melts and separates… Excruciating. He could throw him a bone, play along, bide his time. He nodded at Moriarty, accompanying it with a noise of confirmation.

The truth was he  _did_ have scars from the bedroom- old ones, and fresher ones from Sherlock. If Moriarty saw the chance to tease him about it, he prayed he’d take it- anything to stave off more pain.

\---

“Ooh, I thought as much,” he smirked, satisfied with the blade’s heat and stepping close to him. “And I’ll bet that this…” He dragged the blade over one of the fresher scars on his belly, throwing his head back and taking a deep breath, relishing his cries. “…is from Sherlock, isn’t it?”

He waited, cutting open his arm when the soldier hesitated. “Fucking ANSWER ME, you useless whore. Yes or no?”

\---

The pain was worse than he remembered. He screamed, tearing more of his stitches free. As it sliced through his arm he sobbed, howling in agony. His mouth was free enough to speak, blood flowing freely down his face.

“Yes, yes, yes, Christ, it is!”

\---

He cackled. “Oh, oh, that is too sweet,” he said, wiping tears from under his eyes. “You’re so sweet.” He slashed at his stomach again, still chortling.

“Alright, now what about this one?” He said softly, gesturing to the scar on his arm. He danced the blade back and forth. “Don’t make me wait either…” He warned, voice dropping. He pressed his finger into the cut in his arm, sucking the blood of once he had, humming appreciatively as if he were taste-testing cake icing.

\---

“Fell… t-two stories. Onto…. a skip… Chas-chasing thief.”

He screamed as Jim irritated the wound, fresh pain burning in the gash. He was covered in blood- his face, his torso, and his arms. His hand was still impaled, useless- he couldn’t feel it. It was a lucky thing, really.

He didn’t want to break. He couldn’t, he couldn’t- he rocked on his chain, tears falling unchecked from his eyes, leaving trails in the crusting blood caked to his face.  _Sherlock, please, please, notice me. Notice me. Notice I’m gone._

\---

“See? Was that so hard?” He bit the blade into his thigh, careful of any major arteries, striving for pain. He grinned broadly, watching him twitch and scream.

“Oh John,” he chuckled. “I’m going to have so much fun with you…” He mused. He grabbed his throat, cocking his head in an almost reptilian manner, the knife pressed to the hook in his shoulder. “Beg me to stop for today, John. Beg me and I’ll leave you until tomorrow.”

\---

There was nothing John wanted more than a reprieve. He wanted to be let down, to rest against to ground, to get the fucking hook out of his shoulder, to get away from the god damned  _knife,_  but he couldn’t. He was a soldier. 

He was a  _Captain._

John couldn’t give in. He couldn’t look weak. Moriarty would leap on his weakness, devour it- and it would eat at John, knowing he’d appeared fragile in front of the second scariest man alive.

“Can’t.”

\---

He cracked his jaw, all signs of mercy vanishing almost instantly.

“Just remember, you had this chance.”

He grabbed a roll of wire from the table, pocketing it and moving back over to him. Fire blazed behind the black in his eyes and he held his throat in a vice, pressing him against the brick. His dominant hand closed around the hook and pulled back, slowly edging it from his skin.

“Yes, that’s right SCREAM!” He laughed, holding his throat tighter. “Force those screams out, you little fucker! COME ON!” He laughed until it was out, dropping it and the captain once he had, letting him hang limp by his hand.

“You think you’re brave? You think you’re saving something doing this?” He backhanded him, slapping his wounded mouth on the backswing with an unyielding open palm. “You’re fighting for nothing, John, NOTHING!” He punched him, hard. He grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back. “You think Sherlock cares enough about you to save you from me? Wouldn’t he be clever enough to find you if he wanted you?”

He forced him back up, pinning him by his throat again and ripping the knife from his hand and the wall with echoes of manic laughter. He forced his wrists up and crossed over the bloodied hook, wrapping the wire around them, holding them there. He smirked when it tied off, stepping back to press a button and lift John’s wrists above his head.

He came close again, pressing against him. “He doesn’t care.” He licked the tears from his cheeks, purring when he squirmed. “But he will, when I give you back.”

\---

Nothing could have prepared him for the feeling of the metal hook slipping from his shoulder. He shrieked, his face contorted in agony, his body fighting against the blackness creeping near the edges of his sight.

_Stay awake, John. Don’t let him in._

The weight of his weakened body against the knife made it tear along the tendons. He wouldn’t be able to use that hand again, he estimated. The doctor inside him rattled off the injuries and  _possible_ treatments, focusing on permanent damage if the wounds could even be healed.

That was a pretty big if.

As his skull slammed against the brick he wept, freely, openly. Some soldier he was. The pain was incredible- there wasn’t a single area on his body where he didn’t feel agony. He fought for breath through his sobs, wishing Moriarty would just kill him. He knew that was an impossibility, though- Moriarty never outright killed a piece in his game, not unless he had to.

He’d draw this out.

John felt himself lift, the wire cutting at his wrists, and he let it happen. He didn’t fight. He couldn’t.  _He’s right, John, he’s right. Fighting will get you nowhere. Just comply- just do what he says. Sherlock will find you, he won’t let you suffer._

_Will he?_

Moriarty drew close, too fucking close, pressing his expensively-clad body against John’s. He hated it. He hated him. He tried glaring at him, but his muscles refused to respond- the look he gave instead was tired, empty… And then his fucking  _tongue_ was on his face. John tried to pull away, but he didn’t have the strength to struggle. 

At least, from what he said, Moriarty intended to let him live. Unfortunately.

\---

“Aw, little lamb…” He cooed, the tang of salt and John’s skin on his tongue widening that demonic grin on his face. He chuckled softly.

“See, John? It’s good to stay awake. Actually in your best interest to keep those pretty eyes open, you know…” He trailed bloodstained fingers down his chest and brushing over the front of his pants where he’d struck him earlier, snarling a laugh when he whimpered. “No telling what will happen in the dark, is there?” He winked, licking over his bloodied and torn lips, shoving his chest as he backed up to the table of instruments.

“Now,” he turned, leaning against the table with a container of table salt in his hands, flicking the top open and letting it fall between his fingers for a brief moment. “I’ll ask again, John. Beg me to stop and I’ll leave you for the day. If not,” he pooled the salt in his palm and stepped close. “Well, I’m sure you can guess…”

\---

It was hard to swallow his pride. John knew he’d never be able to live with himself for this; he’d always feel weak, out of control. He had to do it.

“P…Please. Please, s-stop. Please.”

His voice was breaking, barely above a whisper. He sounded pathetic. He already hated himself, but there was nothing he could do. Salt in wounds like his… he couldn’t take it.

\---

Jim giggled like the madman he knew he was, setting the salt on the table and dusting off his hands. “See? There’s a good boy. No more owies from me today…” He turned his back to him, singing again.

He turned, dipping a shallow cup into the water left in the bucket and filling it, walking over to him again.

He held the water in front of his injured mouth, smirking himself. “Thirsty doctor?” He offered, chuckling when he nodded and went to drink. He pulled it back out of his reach, eyes dripping with malice. “Give us a kiss and I’ll give you a drink. Call it an added bonus,” he hissed, locking their gazes.

\---

There was nothing John wanted less than to kiss James Moriarty- especially not with a quarter of his mouth still held together with impromptu stitches. He could rip them out, he could bite his swollen lips, he could do all manner of nasty, vile things to him.

“F…fine.”

He forced himself to keep his eyes open as he leaned forward.

\---

Jim immediately pushed his tongue into John’s mouth, stretching the remaining stitches. He kissed hard and deep, sucking the air from his lungs and the blood from his mouth. Hands fisted in his hair, violating every inch of the captain’s mouth.

He pulled back with a ragged breath, eyes bright, lips stained. He licked them, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his handkerchief. “Hot little mouth you’ve got there, Johnny,” he grinned. “And you taste divine. Makes me wonder…” His eyes dipped to his hips and he giggled.

He brought the cup to John’s lips, letting him drink it down as promised. He thumbed where the remaining stitches were, clicking his tongue again. “Oh, I’ll have to fix those tomorrow, won’t I?” He sighed. “Oh well. We’ll see if we can make them stronger next time, eh?”

He started to saunter away, blowing a kiss over his shoulder. “Night night, Dr. Watson.” He paused at the door. “Come now, say goodnight. It’s only polite.”

\---

He kissed back, groaning at the pain against his lips. John hated everything. He hated himself, he hated Moriarty, he hated Sherlock, he hated Mary, he hated every decision that brought him to New York, that brought him into this madman’s grasp. If Sherlock had just stayed gone-

_John. Stop. You’re made of something stronger than this. Don’t think like that._

Funny how his inner strength always seemed to sound like Sherlock.

“Please don’t,” he whispered as Jim’s thumb ghosted along his abused mouth. “I won’t- won’t cause trouble. Please.” It was still hard to speak, but he powered through it. He had to, to stay alive.

“Good… Goodnight, Mr. Moriarty.”

His stomach dropped. He was disgusting.

_Stay strong, John. Stay alive. Do whatever it takes. Play along._

_\---_

Jim chuckled again. “Maybe if you’re good I’ll pull the rest out, then!” He called roughly, laughing as he opened the door.

“Sleep tight, Johnny boy!” He paused, turning to face him again. “If you think it wise to sleep, that is…” He winked and disappeared with the clang of the door, leaving him hanging alone in the dark.

\---

In the darkness of the warehouse, John sobbed. He broke down utterly, something he was too afraid to do in front of Moriarty. Hot tears ran down his face as all time seemed to vanish. He was alone in this hell.

John was ashamed of the thoughts he’d had while Moriarty violated him. Sherlock  _should_ have come back- he needed him, needed to be near him, and if anything, this was driving it home.

Would he even want him? Blooded, broken, scarred beyond recognition. Would Sherlock still have him by his side if he was paralyzed, or weak? What good was he then? What use? Would he even still be able to hold a gun? If John couldn’t help Sherlock with the work… why would he have him around?

The thought hurt him more deeply than any of Moriarty’s wounds. He began to whisper through his body-wracking sobs. “ _Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.”_ His name was a prayer, a promise to survive. He wouldn’t give up on him, even when it got hard to stay conscious. He’d find him- and when he did, John would never let him go. No matter what. Even if he wanted him gone.

_“Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.”_

He drifted into blackness some hours later, imagining the warmth of the detective wrapped around him, whispering his name in turn.

_John._

\---

Jim kicked the door open a few hours later, donned in just a simple t-shirt and dark jeans this time. “Heeeeeeere’s JOHNNY!” He grinned, barking a laugh as John jerked awake. “Well, did we have a good sleep? Hm?” He asked, skipping over to him.

He slapped his cheek to wake him faster, holding his face. “Answer me.”

\---

John looked at him with swollen eyes. “Don’t… don’t really think I slept.” He swallowed dryly. 

_Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock._

_Here we go again, John. Hang in there._

\---

Jim touched his eyes, fingers gentle, eyes unforgiving and wicked. “Probably had something to do with all that pathetic crying you did, Captain,” he said matter-of-factly. “Crying for a genius that can’t hear you, so cute.”

He picked up the shears, still talking casually as if they weren’t there. “‘Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,’” he mocked, giving a few fake sobs. “Precious, so precious, your Sherlock will love hearing about that, won’t he?”

He held his throat again, eyes blank and void, snapping the shears. “Hold still.”

He slid the blades between John’s injured lips, snipping the rest of the stitches away.

“Oh what fun we’re going to have today, John. The ways you’ll scream. Won’t last any longer than it has to if you’re a good boy for me, you know.” He pulled the thread through his skin, removing any excess as he went. “You think Sherlock’s noticed you’re gone yet?”

\---

The snip of the shears terrified him, but he held still. Very still. He breathed a sigh of  relief as Moriarty pulled the last thread from his lips, wincing slightly at the pain.

He’d heard, of course he had. He wouldn’t want to miss a moment of John’s suffering- cameras, probably. Night vision.

“No,” he answered honestly, “probably hasn’t yet.”

The yet, that was what he was counting on. Sherlock only missed things when it came to his presence, but maybe he had seen. Maybe he had been waiting. Maybe he’d come looking.

\---

Jim trailed the shears down his chest pressing the blades so it nicked his skin every now and again, grinning.

“He won’t want you when I’m through with you,” he growled. “You limping around all over the place…” He tapped the crusted hole in John’s hand. “Won’t be able to hold a gun.”

He cocked his head. “What use will you be to him, hm? I mean, you honestly think he’s going to want your body? Look at you, you’re already scarred and patched together. He’ll vomit just thinking about fucking you. Won’t he?” He opened the shears and pressed them to his throat. “Thoughts?”

\---

“With any luck,” John rasped, “he still will. If I’m alive. More… to memorize. New data. But. Won’t be able to fight. Won’t be able to work. Might- might leave me behind, shattered, broken. But then… I always was. Never stopped him before. Should hear him, moaning my name. Most gorgeous sound in the world.”

Every cut made him whine softly. His throat burned from the screaming, from the sobbing. It was all he could manage. Compared to yesterday, it was tame. Welcome, almost. Anything was better than the mutilation he’s experienced at the hands of the man before.

The tap against his hand, though, had him yelping.

\---

“You think so?” He grinned. He shears dropped and tore through his pants, exposing him to the open air. He grinned as they fell, dragging his nails down is chest, reopening wounds.

“HERE’S what I think John,” he snarled, grabbing his hair and shoving him away from the wall by his injured shoulder. “I think Sherlock will study every inch I scar and know precisely what I did to you. I think he’ll gather all that data and put it to use when he goes on cases without you. I think he’ll forget you even exist, won’t bother telling you what he’s working on so you can help at the flat because god knows that takes too long.”

He went back over to the table, stepping behind John.

“I think he’ll forget you exist, stop seeing the point in you and not bother wasting his time fucking you. He already went how long without sex before you came along? Please. You’ll become more useless and obsolete than that skull…”

He pressed against his back, voice hot in his ear. “And maybe if the fancy takes me, I might just ruin you for him from the inside too.”

He took a step back, cracking the whip he’d retrieved. A warning. “But for now, I think ruining your exterior might suffice.

He drew his arm back and delivered the first lash without another moment’s hesitation.

\---

“If that’s- if that’s the case,” he panted, shaking from the pain of his shoulder and the rough nail marks down his chest, “then why prolong this? He’ll look… ” He shrieked as the whip bit into him. It took him a minute to regain the ability to speak.

“He’ll look at me and walk away, feeling nothing. So what’s… the point of drawing this out? I’m- aaaah! I’m of no bloody use to you if he doesn’t care. So just. Kill me!”

The bastard had gotten into his head faster than he expected him to. A part of him  _knew_ Jim was wrong (because why else draw it out? Wasn’t he here to hurt Sherlock?), but it was impossible to ignore. Naked, caked with his own blood and sweat, he felt small. Incredibly insignificant. He felt worthless. Every fear his rational mind pushed away flooded into his thoughts, poisoning him, eating away at his hope.

Just like Moriarty wanted.

\---

Jim threw his head back, laughing as he struck him three more times, the final stroke drawing blood.

“You think it’s that easy?! That I should just kill you? No, no, John.” He struck him again. “Do you know how gloriously satisfying it will be to break you? To finally get you to see how fucking pathetic and worthless you are?”

He struck him again, laughing gleefully as he did, watching him buckle. “Because Sherlock’s put you on such a high pedestal, making you believe you’re something different. Something special. Let me tell you, John, you’re not.” Twice more. “You’re not his lover, you’re not his partner, you’re his pet. And you know that deep down, don’t you?” He traced a welt, tongue on his lips, watching him.

\---

As each lash snapped against his skin, John screamed.  _Bet you’ll never be into hitting again, will you?_ He shoved the thought away-it was too morbid. He didn’t want to think about the problems they were going to have down the road ( _ifheeverlookedathimthesame)_.

Moriarty was right, right about everything. Every feeling of inadequacy, of worthlessness, of misery that he felt since Afghanistan rushed through him. Every lash pulled a memory up from the depths- his father throwing a bottle of scotch at Harry when she came out, too young to stand up for her. Sherlock falling, falling down… Mary’s sunken face as he held her hand, unable to do anything to save her. Sherlock’s look of disgust in Angelo’s that first night, disgust at him, at his inquiries, at his interest…

“Yes…” he whispered as Moriarty traced his wound. “You’re right, all of it, right.” He hung his head, gasping against the stinging pain. “Nothing. Just a pet. A toy to be discarded. I’ve failed as a soldier. I’ve failed as a doctor. I’ve failed so utterly. I’m really, truly nothing. And I… fuck, I deserve this. I deserved the loss. I deserved the agony. I’m crippled, weak, ordinary. No one’s coming for me- no one knows where I am, no one knows to look for me. No one  _wants_ to. So please. Please, let me die here.”

\---

He grinned.

“Gotcha.”

He struck him hard at least a dozen more times before letting the bloodied whip fall to the ground. He came up behind him, hands exploring his body, slipping through blood and sweat.

“I’m not going to let you die here, John. I’m going to make sure Sherlock sees you. I’m going to leave you as a present for him.”

His lips were beside his ear, hands on his hips with his nails biting into his skin. “Can you imagine the look on his face when he sees you? Hm? All cut up and burned and bruised and broken. You think he’ll want to take the time to put you back together?”

\---

He wished he didn’t, but John screamed. He screamed in pain as he was flayed open again and again, left sobbing and gasping for breath, covered in blood. The stench of it nauseated it, but he couldn’t throw up. There was nothing in his stomach but water, slowly souring. He had to hold himself together- at least as far as that was concerned.

“No,” he cried, “he won’t!” Moriarty was close, too close, gripping him with his talons in a way only Sherlock had. He hated it, hated the heat of him, hated the sound of his voice so close and intimate against his ear. He was glad there wasn’t a mirror in the hellish dungeon- the sight of him so close would snap the tiny amount of will he still had.

\---

“Aw, darling…” He cooed, nipping his jaw and lapping up his tears again. “That’s right, he won’t. He won’t take time away from cases to fix you after mean Mr. Moriarty has at you. He’s got so many more important things to take care of.”

“Oh, you know, I know!” He brightened, hands sinking that much lower, toying with the V that ran to the inside of his thighs. “Maybe Mary will- Oh, that’s right she’s dead. Nobody left to take care of little John Watson.” He shook his head and clicked his tongue, nails biting into skin again and dragging. “You’ll be nothing but his desperate slut limping about again.”

“And then there’s-”

There was a beep somewhere off to the side and he froze, head whipping toward John’s bloodied denims on the ground. He grinned and slipped away, raking nails across his injured back as he went. “Well, well, well, looks like Sherlock might have actually noticed you went missing…” He snatched the phone from his pocket and barked a laugh.

_Fifteen minutes, or hours John? I’m running out of patience._

_-SH_

“Not sure which one of you is more pathetic.”

\---

_He’s not the one naked and bloody and swollen, so I’m willing to bet it’s me._

Still, Sherlock had texted. Good, good, he noticed, maybe he’d come looking for him.

Maybe…

John hung his head, his wrists chafed and torn, his body weakening. He was hungry, he had no urge to relieve himself- the shock was bad, as was the blood loss. He didn’t think he’d be able to stay conscious much longer, and once he went under not even Moriarty’s torture would be able to rouse him. He had to try.

“I’m… it’s me,” he whispered. “I’m… I’m more path- pathetic.” He couldn’t seem to get enough breath. At least Moriarty had stopped touching him.

He darted a tongue out to lap at his torn, cracked lips. His saliva stung badly, but he needed the reprieve that followed.

\---

Jim cackled and texted back. _Sherlock, I have a problem…Sort of a final problem…_

He turned back to John, tucking the phone into his pocket and went back to his toy, stepping behind him again, breath hot in his ear. “Yes, dear, you are so very pathetic. Little waste of space, time and energy. But still fun to play with…” His hands dipped lower, fondling him, growling out laughs as he squirmed and shuddered.

“I’d take what I can get if I was you,” he snarled, squeezing his already wounded flesh. “Disgusting and scarred as you’ll be you’re lucky _I_ want to touch you…” He stole another rough and unforgiving kiss from his tortured mouth, giggling at his tears. “But again, you’re so fun to play with.”

\---

Through some miracle, John managed to keep his eyes open as Moriarty’s hands traveled over his genitals. His throat seemed to be trying to choke him; it was closed, tight, so hard to breathe, unable to speak…

Instead of sobbing, the tears that came were noiseless. He didn’t fight. He didn’t scream. There was nothing left, nothing left to give. He was in his head, tearing him apart, destroying everything that made him John Watson.

He shivered as Jim’s mouth captured his, the pain making it hard to see or even register what was happening. As the monster pulled back, he lowered his head again. He was limp against the wire holding him up, body too weak to support him.

“…Why? Why touch me? You… you said it yourself. I’m not. Never have been. And now, less than ever.” He wasn’t sure he was making sense, but he  _had_ to know. He had to know why Moriarty added insult to injury. He was already a shattered spirit; why this too? Did he want to ruin him completely?

\---

He faltered, just a little at his question, forcing down any emotion besides rage and inhuman delight at his pain.

He took away the pressure and started stroking him lightly, pressing against his back. “I said you’re fun to play with,” he growled, licking his ear. “I’ve violated every aspect of your existence, John. What’s one more?” He hissed.

“And just think, I’m going to make you live with all of this. You don’t get to die, John, you have to face the one person you wanted to think you were special.”

He pulled John’s hips back flush with his own, his own hardness able to be felt through the denim. He chuckled. “Mine’s bigger.”

\---

From his days at Bart’s, John knew a lot about the human body. He knew that blood flow to the penis could happen at any time, without mental and chemical arousal. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t internally scream at his body as it began to fill the one place he did NOT want it to.

“No,” he whispered, “no, not now, no…”

He was hardening beneath Moriarty’s touch, trapped between his hands and his hips and feeling more shame than ever in his life.

\---

Jim chuckled at the hardening length in his hands. “Oh, this is the worst part, isn’t it? Telling yourself over and over that you don’t want it, and it doesn’t listen to you and oh, how, humiliating.” He kept stroking, kept his hand moving over him with a hot voice in his ear.

“Because now it looks like you want me to keep going, now your body’s telling me not to stop, and I won’t,” he snarled, licking his ear.

“How will Sherlock feel knowing I gave you an erection, hm?” He chuckled. “For shame, Dr. Watson, for sha-ame…”

\---

John’s breath was ragged as Moriarty pressed into him, massaging his cock. His words hit home too clearly- If he managed to look past all the wounds, all the new scars and deformities, he wouldn’t want him now that he’d been touched by another, especially when that ‘another’ was this monstrous creature.

He bit his lip, trying not to make a sound. He was thankful, at least, that Jim didn’t seem to want to fuck him or make him come.

_Yet._

_Oh don’t start, don’t think like that, John, no, he wouldn’t- he’s just trying to break you, let it go, don’t think about it, he’s not going to rape you. Don’t make a sound. If he decides it means you enjoy it, he’ll do something terrible. Just let it happen. There’s nothing you can do but endure._

The tears kept coming as he hung his head in shame. He really was pathetic.

\---

He laughed quietly when John looked away. “Ooh, does this count as cheating, doctor?” He wondered aloud, stroking a little faster.

He didn’t like the silence, the silence bothered him. It made him angry and it flared up inside of him for reasons he was unsure of. He gave the head a rough squeeze to elicit a sound.

“Alright, captain, I’m giving you an ultimatum,” he dragged bloodstained, blunted nails over his nipples. “Come for me and I’ll put the whip away. Come for me quickly and I’ll put the whip away and give you some water. If you don’t, well…we wouldn’t want me to have to use that salt, would we?”

\---

“Aaa-ah! Yes, yes, I’ll… I’ll come!”

With Moriarty’s erection still pressed against him and his hand squeezing his shaft, he let the noises come. He groaned and sighed, hissed when the movement was rough- he even, much to his shame, pressed back against Moriarty. He watched as the monster stroked his cock, eyes open. He tried to think of Sherlock, of his pale skin and deep voice, black silk and dark curls-

“Close,” he croaked, terrified of what would happen when he finished.

\---

Jim chuckled, watching and listening to John with dark eyes, a growl low and deep in his throat.

He grunted when he backed into him, his body tensing. He took a fistful of his hair and yanked it back. “You’re close?” He snarled. “Good. Don’t you fucking touch me!”

He squeezed his genitals, stepping beside him. He dipped his finger in the open wound on his shoulder, slicking it with blood. He slid his hand down to the swell of his arse, pressing against his entrance as he stroked him, sneering into a grin.

“Come on now, John, I thought you said you were close?!”

\---

The pain drew him back from the edge and he cried out, terrified. When Moriarty withdrew his hand, John focused on memories of Sherlock once more- shouting his name as he came, the bow of his lips heart-shaped around his cock, slamming into John as he whispered praise-

“I- I am, I’m-“

And then Moriarty’s finger pressed into him, and he tipped over the edge, coming over Moriarty’s hand.

He wanted to die. He felt filthy, violated, embarrassed- he didn’t want to keep surviving. He wanted it to end, to just sink into blackness and never resurface. He knew Moriarty wouldn’t let him.

\---

Jim grinned, shoving him to make him sway, admiring his blush and his tears. “Well take a look at you, John. Coming at my hand. Starting to wonder if you like me…” He picked up John’s shirt off the ground and wiped his hands. “Did make a mess, though, didn’t you?”

He went back over to him, a grin on his face, head swaying like a reptile preparing to strike. “Oh! I almost forgot. I promised you water, didn’t I?”

He snatched up the bucket, going to the tap on the far wall and filling it again. He watched John’s eyes, gaze lingering and he tossed the contents onto his naked body.

“There, all clean,” he giggled. He got the cup and filled it again, pressing it to his lips and let him drain it twice. “There now, isn’t that better?” He grinned. Jim plucked the whip off the ground and tossed it to the table. “And no more of that.”

He patted his cheek. “See? I can show you some mercy, can’t I?” He hissed. “So, how’d it feel?”

\---

_Like having everything good and sacred ripped from my body._

“…Good,” he said softly. He was covered in goose-flesh from the cold water, naked and lost and vulnerable. His gaze was defeated, ashamed, disgusted with himself- probably exactly what Moriarty wanted to see.

John wasn’t sure he could even  _feel_ hate anymore. He wasn’t sure he could feel anything other than self-loathing.

\---

He slapped the doctor, hard. “Liar. I don’t like liars, John, tell the truth.” He warned, taking up the salt again, pouring a steady amount into his hand and pressing it into the hole in his shoulder.

“You should know better than to FUCKING LIE TO ME!” He screamed over him, eyes shining and dripping with malice. “Now tell me the truth, you little slut.”

\---

John screamed as the salt began to burn against his ragged wound.

“Fuck! It was horrible, okay?! Life all the fucking good in my life was yanked away!”

He let out a sob, forcing his head away.

“Like I’ll never be able to again…”

\---

“Aw,” he cooed, lifting his chin and giving him a mock-pout. “Poor, poor little bitch you are. Never again? Never ever?” He mocked, eyes wide. “Oh, well that’s just too bad…”

He forced his mouth on him yet again, humming and moaning obscenely. “All the good in your life…hm, tell me, John, are you broken?” He grinned. “I broke you, didn’t I? Come on, let me hear you say it.”

\---

A shuddering sigh escaped his lungs as he looked Moriarty in the eye.

“I’m a broken man,” he whispered. “You broke me, you fucking broke me.”

The words hurt more than he expected them to.

\---

Jim clapped his hands gleefully. “Oh, wonderful!” He squealed. “I thought it would take a lot longer than this. Good show, captain. I’m sure all your old mates would be so proud of you.” He put a hand on his good shoulder, leaning on him as one would a wall, contemplating.

“You know, I wonder if Sherlock would break just as easily? Wonder if he’d let me at his body like an eager whore the way you did, too, but that’s neither here nor there.” He looked at him with another grin. “What do you think, John, you think I’d break Sherlock in less than 48 hours?”

\---

“Honestly?” His voice was quiet and pained. “No. He’s far less simple than I am…” John’s voice cracked. He just wanted to disappear.

\---

He nodded, lips pursed. “What do you think I would have to do to break him, simple John? Be detailed now.”

\---

“… You’d have to… Seeing me like this. He’d… it would destroy him. If he cares.”

John could think of nothing else that would make the great Sherlock Holmes snap. The man was made of titanium, unbendable, unbreakable.

Seeing John, though… naked, bleeding, mentally and emotionally broken… His captain, his soldier, reduced to this…

\---

He chuckled. “You give yourself of a lot of credit, don’t you, doctor?” He hissed, kissing his cheek. He pushed him back against the wall, leaning beside him once he had.

“You know what I think would break him? Other than your pathetic little hide. Seeing that might make him vomit or beg me to get you out of his sight, though,” he grinned.

“I think the same regiment of pain I gave you, that same level. Maybe more burns and electricity instead of a whip, however. Make him count how many beats his heart skipped…” He sighed a little, as if this were a chore. “Although I think I’d have to fuck him senseless to get the message across instead of just jerking him off like I did you.” His grin stretched. “Oh, I’d take hours to make him come…”

\---

A man can be pushed too far. He may have felt worthless, felt useless, but he would not-  _he would not_  be fucking Sherlock.

“You’d have to fucking kill me first.” His voice was hard, edged with darkness, utterly void of the sorrow and pain from before. “You will never fuck him. Even battered, even broken, I would tear you limb from limb. Do you understand me? He could fuck all of India, for all I care, but if you touch him I will end you without a moment’s hesitation.”

\---

He grinned. He knew he missed something in there. “Oh, you will, will you? Don’t want me touching your precious little Sherlock? Aww, such precious loyalty. You are a good pet, aren’t you? A hollowed, disgusting slut of one, but still a pet.”

He moved to face him, still smiling. “You want to rip me apart? Try. I dare you to try, John. But the funny thing is,” he rolled his eyes with a giggle. “I can’t die. You can’t kill me or even hurt me, look.” He took a knife off the table and sliced his arm open, holding it in front of John’s eyes and felt it heal completely in less than a minute. “So ripping me apart would be a neat trick.”

He stroked his hair and his cheek, still giggling. “I’d have him slow. So very, very slow and so intimate. Get his wrists tied to his ankles, hang him from the ceiling like a light fixture. I’d bother to undress for him too, let him feel my skin, shove my dick down his throat and make him taste me. I’d make him swallow, too.”

He pressed closer to John, grinning. “I’d even slick up my hand and work him open with my fingers, watch him squirm and whimper and beg me to stop. He’d get hard, too and be so very upset with himself that he had. I’d take my time putting my dick in him, slow as I can manage, but I’m sure he’s tight and feels exquisite, doesn’t he?” He hissed, licking his lips. “I’d make it last so long, hours, even. Until he could do nothing but shake and cry and maybe get the occasional please out.”

“Once I’m through with him he’ll never want to fuck anyone else for as long as he lives. Especially you, constant reminder of me that you will be.”

\---

John lowered his head and raised his eyes, glaring, swollen lips twisted in a snarl.

“The hell you would.”

Fire, he was on fire, seeing red. His mind was occupied with tearing Moriarty apart- he’d cut that smug bastard’s cock off and shove it down his throat- let it fucking heal then. He was still, so still against the wire on his wrists. John was  _back,_ back from whatever void Moriarty had shoved him into.

“You feel the pain, though, don’t you. Your body heals, but your nerves still activate. You’d be the perfect fucking torture victim, wouldn’t you? I’m not fucking broken; you had me close to believing I was, though. No. I’m a fucking fighter, a fucking soldier, and if you don’t kill me here I will fucking  _destroy_ you. Do you hear me, Moriarty? I will burn you alive. I will flay the skin from your bones and watch it grow back, only to do it again. I will tear your throat out with my teeth and dance in your fucking blood. Again. And again.

So you had better kill me, because you’re not getting anywhere near Sherlock. If you even so much as try, I will crush your skull over and over for days on end.”

He meant every word of it. 

\---

He threw his head back and laughed, long, loud and hard, shaking his head. “Now that, THAT has got to be the most hilarious thing I’ve ever heard in my life. I threaten to fuck the man who cares about you so much he’d obviously find you already and outsmart me- Oh, wait, no, not true, is it?- and you get all kinds of fired up, how cute.”

He looked at him steadily, face twisted in a horrible smile. “You think I don’t know pain, John? That I don’t know how much someone can make another human being hurt? If that’s the case, you’re grossly mistaken. Ask Mycroft Holmes if you’re curious,” he said darkly.

“I’d love for you to burn me alive, John. I’d love for you to crush my skull and make me eat my own dick, I really would. Because I could use a good laugh. And if you think for a second you could ever make me beg you for anything, or let out one little scream then I’ve beaten you into delusions.”

\---

“No, you wouldn’t scream. I wouldn’t  _care. I just want to watch you break open again and again_. He may not be here, but I don’t much care about that either- knowing you, you’ve got him running all over the city with false leads. You’re good at stringing him along. What matters to me, Mr. Moriarty, is  _watching._ Watching your body twist and melt. Watching you bleed. I’m not out to be creative. I’m out to satisfy my own needs.”

\---

He gave a short nod, expression blank. “Mm, yes, I see,” he said flatly. “Cut me, bleed me, burn me, drown me, cut off the bits that stick out, I understand. Become like me in order to satisfy your own need to beat the idea out of my head, I see, I see.”

“Because that’s what you’d be, Dr. Watson, you’d be just, like, me,” he face was still blank and emptier than his eyes and his voice. “I think Sherlock might be even more repulsed by that, don’t you?”

\---

John ground his teeth.

“Well, as you’re so fond of pointing out, he’s not coming for me- whether by your design or his own. So it doesn’t matter what I become. No matter what you turn me in to, the results are going to be the same. I’d rather be alone a monster than an empty shell of a man.”

\---

He nodded thoughtfully, a smile finding its way back to his face. “So you’d hurt me, would you? That’s all well and good but you really think you could get your hands on me?”

\---

He sighed. “If operating at full capacity? Yes. Not now, of course. Not after this. I’ll be lucky if I live.” His eyes glanced to the large hole in his shoulder. “Won’t be catching colds now, let alone apparently immortal psychotics. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t try- just that it’d be in vain.”

\---

He cracked his neck, agitated, and gripped his throat, slamming him against the brick with a squeeze.

“No. I didn’t fucking mean when you’re this worthless and useless, you stupid fucker. I meant if you were the tip-top hobbit you usually are how would you even fathom getting your hands on me?” He snarled, head cocked.

\---

John grunted in pain as Moriarty gripped him.

“You’re too fucking eager, that’s how. Just like Sherlock. Fucking  _love_ showing off. You’d slip up, and I would be there in a fucking heartbeat. I know things now, things stronger than you, things that would be fucking  _glad_ to take me to you in an instant just to watch me violate you.”

\---

He laughed again. “See, that’s just, it’s just so fucking sweet that you really think that. You honestly think I’d-”

He stopped, everything in his world going white for a brief moment. His insides twisted and curled painfully, mind throwing memories and emotions at him like snapshots.

He reared back, letting him go, immediately wrapping his hand around the handle of the bullwhip and brought it down across John’s torso in less than ten seconds, eyes ablaze.

\---

John bit back a scream, groaning low in his throat as the whip lashed across his chest. He had hit a nerve. He wanted to press it, to dig the verbal knife in, but he knew better. He held his tongue.

\---

He struck him over and over and over again in a fury, not thinking, not breathing, not seeing anything but things he was sure he could only do away with if he struck John.

The whip sliced through his skin, slicing open his collarbone and his neck, nicking his cheek and mainly attacking his ribs and his thighs.

He didn’t stop until he had to catch his breath, a raw, twisted look of anger and horror etched into his features. He gasped raggedly, like some sort of primal animal, watching the blood run from the doctor’s body.

“What was that you were saying?” He growled, voice not his own.

\---

This time, he screamed. He couldn’t hold it back. As his skin separated he writhed in pain, shrieking as he was flayed apart again and again. When Moriarty finally ceased the lashings, John struggled to raise his head. “I said,” he panted, “That I would get you. In a heartbeat.” He hissed the final word.

“And I would do things to you that only the regeneration made bearable.”

The fire inside of him wouldn’t fade that easy. He was half out of his mind with pain and blood loss, but he wouldn’t back down. Not again.

He hoped.

\---

“You would, would you?” He challenged. He took another handful of salt and threw it at him, watching it seep and bubble in his open wounds. “You still haven’t managed to tell me how you think you’d get your hands on me. Lots of talk, John, lots and lots of talk that I don’t particularly care about.”

He got in his face again, thumbing his Adam’s apple. “You want to fight again, Johnny? Is that what you want? Hm?”

\---

“I’m not giving up who or what I know,” he hissed through teeth gritted against the pain. “And I will fight if I have to. You did this. Not me.”

_The Doctor. Castiel. No, he wouldn’t mention them._

\---

“Fine. Fine I fucking dare you to find me, John. I dare you to. I want you to. I want to watch you twist and darken until you’re just like me. Then you and Sherlock can both be like me, hm? You’ll be the madness, he’ll be the brain and I’ll watch you two hate each other more than you already have.”

He started hitting wherever he could reach, beating his face and his ribs, feeling a few crack under his fists, hitting until he cracked his knuckle.

\---

As Moriarty rained blows down on him, John fought for breath. He felt his ribs snap and he howled in pain.  _If they puncture a lung I’m dead Jesus Christ Sherlock please come find me-_

Bruised, battered, and swollen, he coughed as Moriarty pulled back finally. The punches that landed on his lacerations were the worst. His head swam from the pain. He couldn’t speak.

\---

“Fuck!” He cursed, shaking his bleeding hand out, shooting John a grin. “Whoo, that was relaxing, hm?” He cackled, relaxed and redeemed once more.

“Alright, Johnny, you want to fight me? You want to hurt me for even thinking about tainting that sweet pale skin of his, great. Soon as you can move again.” He turned back to the table. “What should we play with now?”

\---

John was breathing carefully. He knew he’d ruined the only reprieve he was likely to see that that day but he couldn’t help himself- the thought of Moriarty all over Sherlock,  _inside_ of him, had really struck a nerve. It was all John could do to stay conscious, but he was still furious. Still seething. Even after the salt, even after the battery, he was hanging on with one thought.

_Hurt him hurt him hurt him Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock-_

He kept his head down, brow furrowed. Even through the physical agony, he could feel the anger boiling inside of him. He wasn’t afraid anymore. He had nothing to lose but his life, which meant exactly fuck and all to him right then.

All that mattered was Sherlock.

\---

“Ooh, here we are,” he giggled, holding up a cattle prod. “Something we haven’t played with yet, hmmm?”

\---

 _Oh shit_. He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. Shit, electricity. He wouldn’t handle that well.

_I may have pushed too far this time, but I’m not backing down._

He cracked his neck from side to side, steeling himself.

\---

Jim grinned, pressing the button a few times to watch it zap and pop in the air. “Ooh, so tough, aren’t you? Such a strong little soldier…”

He touched the instrument to a welt on his neck, eyes hollowed to nothing but fire and hate, absolute rage and malice, itching to watch John squirm.

He got his hips and the gash in his shoulder. He pressed it to the hook and watch his entire body be wracked with tremors. “Yes, there we are, dance, little one.” He chuckled.

He got his nipples next, hopping from one to the other several times, waiting for tears, cackling when he got them.

“Nothing like the pornos, is it, captain?!”

\---

All the rage left him as his body contorted with the power of the electricity coursing through his muscles. When it reached his shoulder he blacked out momentarily, each subsequent jolt bringing him back from the darkness. Tears ran freely as he screamed, sobbing from the pain. It was horrible, worse than anything he had experienced up to that point (except for the hook).

When Moriarty finally stopped he went limp, metal wire tearing at his wrists, struggling to breathe. All the fire went out of him, all the defiance. He deflated.

\---

Jim grinned, thumb away from the button as he lifted John’s chin. “Ah, there we are. Right back where you were. A little mess hanging from wire.”

He stepped around him, shocking his back and his thighs. “What happened to the fire, John? All that anger…” He touched the back of his neck before stepping around to face him again. “Easy come,” he winked, “easy go.”

He licked his lips, grinning. “Or maybe you just lack the balls!” He punctuated the word by touching it to his sac, his laugh high and manic.

\---

John wailed as the bastard thrust the prod into his groin, his vision going white with agony. He succumbed to the pain, fading into unconsciousness once again.

_Sherlock, I’m so sorry._

\---

He sighed when John fainted, letting the prod fall and turned to the table. “John, John, John, you make me do this to you…” He said to no one.

He plucked up an already filled syringe, tapping it and pushing a bit of the liquid through the needle to make sure the air was out. “Well, you didn’t make me do this to you. Sherlock made me do this to you. If you want to blame anyone blame him for not dying.”

He plunged the syringe into his neck, waiting for the amphetamines to start working.

\---

John’s eyes fluttered open, his entire body protesting the regained consciousness. As the drug worked its way through his system he started to brush off the exhaustion- bringing on fresh waves of agony.

“Please… Please, no more…”

\--

He broke into another fit of giggles. He waved the syringe at him before tossing it behind him. “Those do work like a dream, don’t they?” He squeaked.

He got close, grabbing his face. “Louder.”

\---

“Please! Please, no more!” His shouts echoed through the empty room, ringing in his ears, “Please, _please_!” 

\---

He grinned, petting his hair. “There’s a good boy.”

He took a few steps back, finger positioned above a button that would lower him to the floor. “Do you want me to put you down, John?” He sneered.

\---

“Yes,” he said, loud enough to be heard. “Please put me down.”

_Either onto the floor or with a bullet. Either’s good with me._

\---

He pushed it, watching John be lowered slowly so he was on his knees. He stepped forward and slid his wrists off the hook, watching him fall over with a chuckle. He leaned down over him, licking his face again.

“Now, Johnny, would you like to go home?” He asked, brows raised, eyes bright.

\---

John had never wanted anything so badly in his life.

“Yes, yes, please, let me go home. Please…”

\---

He chuckled and cocked his head. “Now, why do you want to go home, dear? Tell me why, don’t be vague and unless you want to get hauled back up in the air,” he threatened, scolding like a stern parent.

\---

“I need to see him. I need to hear his voice. I need to know what’s going to happen between us. I need to go to the hospital, I need antibiotics to ward off sepsis, I need a blood transfusion, I need stitches, I need to know our flat is real, that it wasn’t a dream, that this isn’t all I’ve known. I want to feel our sheets, smell the vaguely chemical scent of the kitchen. I want to drink.”

\---

“Aw, that’s so sweet…” He grabbed his hair, forcing him into a kiss again. He took the phone from his pocket and smiled. “I think you’re right. I think it’s about time I get you home.”

He looked over his shoulder at Loki, who’d remained visible to only him throughout the ordeal, observing, and nodded.

A blink later and John was on the living room floor of 221B, gasping and bleeding onto the rug. Jim watched him look around in confusion and laughed. “What’s the matter, John? I thought you wanted to come home?” He looked toward Sherlock’s room, knowing the flat was empty.

“Shh, hush, hush, you stay quiet now,” he chastised, gripping his hair and dragging him to Sherlock’s room, tossing him onto the carpet. “Is this where you fuck, captain?”

\---

“Yes,” he replied, his voice and body shaking.

_Oh god, what is he going to do?_

\---

He scoffed, seeing the worry in his face. “Oh, don’t be stupid. As if I’d fuck an ugly thing like you. Please,” he snickered. He gripped his hair again, hauling him onto the bed, watching the sheets stain instantly. “Well, John, looks like playtime’s almost over…” He pouted. “Such a shame, I was having so much fun,” he snarled, face close to his.

“Just one more thing,” he said, reaching inside the jacket he’d snatched up and took out a large red Christmas bow. “Can’t be a proper present without one, can you?”

\---

He released a shuddering breath as Moriarty applied the bow. He didn’t think he could move to call an ambulance- he’d have to wait for Sherlock to find him.

\---

Jim chuckled low in his throat, pressing a kiss to John’s cheek. “Tell Sherly I said hello…” He grinned, sauntering through the doorway. He peeked back through, winking. “If you live that long.”

And he was gone.

\---

The moment he was alone he began to sob, wracking cries that shook his body.

“Sherlock! Come home, please! I need you, Christ, I need you-“

He fell into silence an hour later, still shaking, still crying, still bleeding.

_-Failure John you are worthless empty ugly and alone so alone you broke you broke before him and nothing will ever be the same-_

Sleep came quickly after that, filled with nightmares, filled with pain. John kept listening, listening for the door.

Waiting for his hope to return.


End file.
